Curtis was found dead in his still-running car on Aug. 16, just blocks from his most recent job helping others. His family said he died from an accidental overdose after a recent relapse with heroin.

Curtis Center poses for a picture with his daughter, Skylar.(Photo: Courtesy of the Center family)

At 36, Curtis’s death shook Delaware's addiction community. Few could believe the gentle but motivated man, always strong in his recovery and leading the way for others, had lost his battle with addiction.

“I've always known that was a possibility because I've found him overdosed so many times,” Adam said. “It was like, … I can’t believe this happened but I think that I was kind of mentally preparing myself … but I’ve never lost anyone like this.”

Adam and Curtis were alumni of nearly every rehab facility in Delaware, as patients or counselors. And between the two, the twins had stints at many facilities in surrounding states, as well.

Their stories of struggling with and overcoming addiction had great reach, and earned them credibility in The First State.

“I can't tell you how many people came by here after Curtis died and said he saved their lives,” said their stepfather, Sonny McAllister. “And I tried to tell them that he didn't. All he did was inspire them to save their own lives, to just stick with the program. That was his message.”

This year, 166 people have died in Delaware from suspected drug-related overdoses, according to the Delaware Department of Health and Social Services. Last year, that number reached 308.

"We are in the middle of a heroin epidemic," said Dr. Terry Horton, chief of addiction medicine at Christiana Care Health System. "Being in recovery from addiction gives you a chance, but it's a lifelong endeavor to remain in recovery."

"In the current environment we're in, it becomes like Russian roulette," he said, "and instead of bullets, it's bags of heroin."

Two brothers, one path

Adam Center struggles to tell his brother’s story without also recalling his own. Their lives are so tightly woven together that Adam backtracks often, the rehab centers and the overdoses blurring together in his memory.

In many ways, Adam said, he and Curtis were the quintessential heroin addicts: Young men who started out with alcohol, marijuana and then eventually – with the help of wisdom teeth surgery at the age of 20 – pills.

“We would progress naturally like any other 20-year-old in Claymont in the early 2000s, with Oxycontin first and foremost, and then eventually, heroin,” he said.

Both he and Curtis wound up in Delaware prisons for burglary and drug-related charges – all committed to feed their habits, Adam said. In the process, they were kicked out of their parents’ home at 18, a decision both Adam and his parents, even now, describe as necessary.

Curtis Center poses with his daughter, Skylar, for a photo at Dollywood.(Photo: Courtesy of Adam Center)

By this point, both young men had dabbled in rehab. Detox became a way to “buy time,” Adam said, and a way to lower a growing habit with expensive pills and ruinous heroin. In no way was it a “commitment to recovery,” he said.

“We liked to use together,” Adam said. “We would cop together. And we started traveling to Philly."

The rumors about North Philadelphia, Kensington in particular, were the real draw – better product, better access and a better high, Adam said. The stories circulated around the detox facility on Kirkwood Highway and newspaper articles that fentanyl had hit the area.

That was in 2006, when Curtis first overdosed.

Adam found him in the bathroom, blue and passed out. They were only sniffing heroin at this point, he said, but Curtis was gone.

Then paramedics showed up, Adam said, and tried the overdose antidote naloxone. Until recently, the drug – known more commonly by its brand name Narcan – wasn’t readily available to first responders encountering overdoses.

“It really scared the hell out of me,” Adam recalled. “He was gone… I was giving him CPR to no avail and (paramedics) come in the house, hit him with Narcan and he sat up.”

He got out, met up with his brother and the two used again, Adam said. Then they took the leap to injecting the drug. Shooting heroin, Adam said, was the game-changer.

“People glorify that way of doing it,” said Curtis’ little brother, Nick Hall, who also struggled with addiction. “It’s faster, it hits you harder and it takes less.”

More stints in and out of rehab followed. A bad car crash almost killed Curtis again. More overdoses came and went, but he and Adam survived – together.

Along the way, Adam struggled, too. The draw of heroin was hard to escape, and he recalls the many friends and acquaintances they lost along the way. But no one could convince the young men to give up the drug.

It wasn’t until 2010 that recovery found Curtis.

A ‘place of hopelessness’

Adam was shocked. Their parents were skeptical. But for Curtis, 2010 was the first time recovery seemed to be working.

Six months later, Adam made the same decision. And six months after that, Nick followed.

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Family and friends remember Curtis Center as a loving man who sought to help others battling with addiction.(Photo: BRITTANY HORN/THE NEWS JOURNAL)

“We came from a place of hopelessness,” Adam said, “and then we were going to school, going to meetings and we all were really excited about recovery.”

“At the time,” he said, “in New Castle County, there was a big group of young people getting sober –– in, 2011, 2012, even 2013. ... It was a special time.

"The meetings were packed with young people and my brother was working at detox. We had been on the circuit for years and people knew we had been through some s***, and now we were able to use that experience to really start helping people.”

It wasn’t long before Curtis found himself first at Gateway and later, at Christiana Care Health System, working as a specialist with Project Engage, a program that introduces those in the throes of addiction to people in recovery to help them find a path forward.

The program, started in 2008, specifically employs those in recovery because they understand the experience of addiction, Horton said, and can relate on a personal level to overcoming its obstacles. They also serve as ambassadors in the hospital for staff members because they represent hope for those struggling.

"It becomes very hopeless," Horton said. "And that was not only frustrating but painful for the staff. The engagement specialists were peer ambassadors in our hospital. They represented that people can recover, and that (addiction) was not a character issue but a medical problem."

Today, this model is replicated in hospitals throughout the country, with many more developing similar programs, he added.

For those working in recovery, the job can also serve as a daily reminder of why they stopped using.

“In early recovery, what Curtis did was not try and fit recovery into our life,” said his little brother, Nick Hall. “He showed us that we had to build our life around recovery. And recovery became the foundation to allow us to go to school and get jobs.”

But for physicians in the field, it's impossible to forget that the chronic brain disorder of addiction comes with the possibility for relapse, as is the case with many chronic illnesses.

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Dr. Terry Horton, chief of the Division of Addiction Medicine at Christiana Care, speaks during a press conference at Legislative Hall.(Photo: GARY EMEIGH/SPECIAL TO THE NEWS JOURNAL)

"When people are in recovery for awhile, it's important that you really can't ever be too comfortable," Horton said.

And those working in recovery take that challenge on from the front lines.

Many, including his brothers, credit Curtis with saving their lives.

"I never had goals,” Adam said. “I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. That kind of talk, we didn't have, and then all of a sudden, we started having it. … I just followed Curtis’ footsteps.”

Dozens of posts on social media in the days after his death paid tribute to the man several credited with saving their lives. Others recalled the many he took along with him in his journey through recovery.

“He would pull people off the streets,” recalled Erin Goldner, who met Curtis through her own recovery. “He would stop his freaking car and pull people up off the streets. He’d be like ‘Yo, you ready to get sober now? Get in the car.’ He always was looking out for people. … I don’t know how he helped the amount of people that he did, honestly.”

Goldner, who started Hope Street – a nonprofit aimed at raising awareness for addiction and recovery – is optimistic her work will help honor what Curtis strove to achieve every day. This weekend, her organization will honor first responders who “help those with addiction in times of crisis” from 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday at 10 S. James St. in Newport.

“I still hear his voice sometimes,” she said. “I don't know what happened, when that decision to pick back up was, but ... he was definitely a motivator. If he was around, you were going to get motivated to do something. You were going to feel something.”

Adam is frank about Curtis’ past, as are his parents. Despite being the one to lead his family to recovery, Curtis struggled to stay there himself.

Sometimes, it would be one drink. Sometimes it was a bad date. But all triggers led back to heroin and a way of life Adam thought his brother had left behind for good.

“I thought he had a few months sober and I really was naive,” Adam said. “I didn't think he was gonna go back there again.”

‘I’m not giving up’

On the day of Curtis’ funeral, there wasn’t enough parking for the hundreds of people who flocked to his service. Adam said people told him they had to park a half-mile away just to get a spot. And though visitors started lining up a half hour before the viewing started, they still weren’t finished more than three hours later.

It looked like a massive Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with a number of people in recovery huddled inside and around Gebhart Funeral Home, Goldner recalled, adding that Curtis would have loved it.

“Our world came to an end,” said Curtis and Adam’s mother, Becky McAllister. “We have to find a new normal. That’s my goal.”

Tears rolling down her cheeks, she added: “I just wish they could understand, 'It’s not your fault.' Addiction is not their fault.”

And though it may not always feel like that, Curtis’ life taught them so many lessons – none more important than acceptance, said his stepfather, Sonny. People of all walks of life embraced their family at Curtis’ service, all touched and changed by the work of one man.

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Curtis Center's family created photo boards to display at his funeral.(Photo: BRITTANY HORN/THE NEWS JOURNAL)

“He may have had a short life,” said Sonny McAllister. “But it was a pretty good one.”

On Sept. 7, Adam celebrated his 37th birthday without his twin brother. He still hasn’t come to grips with the loss of his best friend, who has started appearing in his dreams.

“I really don't even know how I am,” Adam said, trailing off in thought outside his parents' home. “I'm sure I'll be dealing with this for the rest of my life.”

For years, Adam has watched addiction steal friends and acquaintances – some along the train tracks in Philadelphia’s West Kensington neighborhood, some in homes and cars here in Delaware.